A Request to Make of Me
by ItsMadness
Summary: '"I have a request to make," Loki began slowly, his tone deferential. "Go on," the Allfather prompted encouragingly. Loki took a deep inhale through his nose, raising his chin to look at Odin squarely. "I would like a set of knives."' Fluff, father-son bonding, good!Odin. Oneshot.


**DISCLAIMER****: I do not own Thor, or any characters/situations within. No money is being made from the fan-written work of fiction.**

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"Father."

Odin blinked, coming slowly to awareness. He sat upon Hliðskjálf, one elbow propped against the gilded armrest and his chin resting on his weathered knuckles. Gungnir leaned against his knee, braced loosely in his other hand. He pulled himself away from the magic of the High Seat, halting his survey of the Nine Realms. He felt a moment of disorientation, as he always did when bringing his consciousness back from its' expanded state. The adjustment period was longer the more time had passed since his last Odinsleep.

"Allfather."

It took a moment for his vision to focus, and his head to stop spinning. It felt much like being startled from a deep, exhausting slumber, and Odin resisted the urge to rub his eye. He blinked twice more, seeing Loki standing at the bottom of the golden steps leading up to the throne, his fingers clasped behind his back as he waited patiently for the Allfather to regain his bearings. Odin felt a moment of gratitude that it was not his older son waiting for an audience; Thor was both loud and impatient, and rarely waited for more than a few seconds before launching into whatever tale or demand he had at the moment- whether Odin was ready to listen or not.

Almost as soon as Odin focused his eye upon his youngest son did Loki drop his gaze, staring at the polished steps with an inscrutable expression. Odin frowned, Loki had taken to masking his emotions as of recently, and for the life of him, Odin could not understand why or how it had happened. One day his child had gone from being an open-book, easily read and understood, to a brooding and mysterious being, his thoughts and feelings hidden behind an impenetrable wall of control. Frigga had noticed as well, and during mealtimes when Odin was present, he sometimes caught his wife sending a concerned glance towards Loki's seat at the feast table. Thor was naturally oblivious, his companions much the same. Odin wondered when Thor's friends had stopped being Loki's as well.

He was pulled from his musings by a polite clearing of a throat, and noticed Loki sending him darting glances.

"I can return at another time, if you are unavailable," Loki offered, turning his gaze to the exit. His eyes remained unreadable.

Odin hastened to reassure him. Loki rarely sought ought his father's company as it was; he was hardly going to deny his son time in his presence when he _did_ ask.

"Not at all, I was just finishing." Odin lied. Loki offered a mildly skeptical raise of an eyebrow, but accepted the false excuse without protest. "What is it that you need?"

His son's eyes once more fell upon the golden steps, and Odin wondered if that was to hide a glimpse of Loki's thoughts from escaping his gaze. Perhaps his son's mask was not quite as impenetrable as Odin first believed.

"I have a request to make," Loki began slowly, his tone deferential. When he raised his eyes once more, they were carefully blank.

Odin felt his interest piqued. The Trickster rarely asked for things, not if he could get them himself. What he wanted, he would go find; whether it was a scroll or grimoire, an artefact to add to his growing collection, or something from the kitchens to eat. In fact, the last notable request Loki had made of Odin had been as a boy, asking for separate chambers from his brother. (_"Thor refuses to respect boundaries! He mistreats my books, he snores, and always leaves the hearth lit at nighttime."_) Odin therefore found himself curious as to the nature of Loki's request.

"Go on," the Allfather prompted encouragingly. He noticed the way Loki's shoulders relaxed minutely, as if he'd been expecting his father to refuse. Odin felt a pang at that.

Loki took a deep inhale through his nose, raising his chin to look at Odin squarely. "I would like a set of knives."

_What?_ "What?"

His son flinched unconsciously, and Odin fancied the action sent a blade to his heart. He cursed himself fervently- why did he always have to say the wrong things around Loki? Thor wasn't half as difficult, but then, Odin's eldest son had always been most like Odin himself when he was young.

Loki swallowed, his eyes betraying the briefest flash of nervousness before he lowered his gaze once more.

"Knives," he clarified, sounding slightly less sure of himself. "For throwing."

Odin blinked, studying his son carefully. The request puzzled him more than he liked to admit. When had Loki become interested in weapons? His son had received rudimentary training in various forms of combat, just as every young lad (and lass, if she so wished) did on Asgard, but beyond that? He'd never noticed Loki expressing any further interest in physical combat.

His son was naturally gifted in the art of seiðr; magic flowed in copious amounts through Loki's veins the same way the berserkr fury flowed through Thor's. Perhaps even more so, for Odin had never seen such a massive affinity for seiðr in a child before he found Loki. Already his adopted son had far outstripped his tutors in skill, and his insatiable hunger for knowledge only added fuel to the fire of his ever-expanding mind. He was fast approaching Odin's skill, and with more time to study without ruling a kingdom, and the raw magical strength to power his spells, there was a very good chance than in a few millenia, Loki would have the knowledge and control required to surpass the Allfather.

Odin was sure that thought ought to worry him more than it actually did.

But still, knives? Throwing knives? He couldn't fathom why Loki would ask for such a thing. Already his magic was lethal in combat, and Loki rarely used the same trick twice. He was unpredictable and efficient, and his reflexes were quick enough that he hardly ever left battle with more than a small cut or bruise, if Eir's reports were to be believed. Of course, Loki could also be healing himself during combat, but Odin found that less likely. Healing seiðr required a tremendous amount of concentration, not to mention time and quiet, all of which was never present during traditional combat.

So why...?

"I can conjure them, but it takes some effort," Loki continued, his words pouring quickly from his lips in his rush to explain. "and I cannot always depend upon my magic in battle. Knives are far simpler for me to wield than any other weapon, and..."

Loki trailed off, swallowing the rest of his explanation. But Odin could hear the unspoken words as easily as if Loki had said them aloud, and they sent a pang of sorrow to his heart.

_And maybe if I use a _real_ weapon in battle, the other warriors will accept me. _Oh, Loki...

Odin watched his child sadly, seeing the way the young man kept his hands behind his back, as if he wished dearly to wring them but did not want his father to see. His son's mask was cracking, breaking the longer Odin remained silent. Loki's eyes flicked from the floor to Odin to the floor again, each glance displaying a bit more doubt and uncertainty.

"I-" his throat bobbed in a fierce swallow, and his eyes stopped glancing towards his father to remain resolutely on the ground. "I'm sorry. I only wanted... well. I shan't ask again."

He bowed deeply, turning to leave. Odin felt a strange sort of panic grip him, his hand raising as if to reach across the room and keep his son from exiting. All the while he cursed inwardly, shouting at himself to act._ Damn you, old fool, speak quickly before you lose him!_

"Loki-" the young man turned slightly, looking over his shoulder with hesitation clearly writ across his features. "Son, it is alright. I would be happy to commission a fine set of throwing knives for you to wield. I will send the order immediately, in fact."

His youngest blinked several times, lips parted in shock. Incredulity and pleased surprise warred over Loki's expression before he clamped down on the emotions viciously. He could not, however, disguise the hope in his voice.

"Truly-?"

Odin nodded, eyes crinkling with a reassuring smile. "Of course. I'll have Brokkr do it- he is among the finest smiths in the Nine Realms. He will make each knife a masterpiece in itself."

Loki's lips twitched as if fighting a delighted grin. "Thank you, very much Father."

"What kind of father would I be, if I could not do something so simple for my son?" Odin stood, summoning Huginn to his arm. "You will have your knives within a fortnight."

His son nodded, inwardly pleased. He bowed once more, and turned again to leave.

"And Loki?" Odin called after him. He waited for Loki to look at him, before saying earnestly.

"You need not be afraid to make requests."

The young god licked his lips, offering a nod after a moment's hesitation.

"I'll remember," he promised, departing with one last flitting glance towards the Allfather.

Odin watched his son go, idly stroking Huginn's inky feathers with his free hand. He looked at the raven, lips quirking briefly.

"Well, what do you think? Did I do alright?"

The bird stared at him without amusement, and Odin chuckled.

"Fine, fine. Are you ready to journey to Niðavellir?"

Huginn cawed, ruffling his black plumage. _'Of course.'_

"Then bring Brokkr this message..."

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At the end of two weeks, Loki awakens to find a single leather arm holster and a gleaming, wickedly sharp dagger of masterful craftsmanship pinning a note of parchment to his desk.

_This is Hvassastir, forged of the same metal_

_as Mjölnir. She will fly far and true, and multiply at _

_your command. None may throw her but you, my son._

And at the end, written with a precise and sure hand:

_You need not be afraid to make requests._

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**A/N: _Hvassastir: _From Old Norse '_hvass_' meaning '_sharp_'.  
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